


Aile de la Nuit

by 52714



Category: DC Animated Universe, DCU, Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Bad French, Dick Grayson is a fancy prostitute, Drama, Edwardian Period, Extremely Gratuitous Descriptions, First Love, First Time, M/M, Prostitution, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-07
Updated: 2017-11-02
Packaged: 2018-08-29 15:26:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8495176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/52714/pseuds/52714
Summary: A demi-monde of unparalleled beauty, clientele, and scandal, Dick Grayson struggles his way to the top of Parisian society during the Belle Époque.





	1. La lettre et la visite

**Author's Note:**

> "Demi-monde (in 19th-century France) [is defined as] the class of women considered to be of doubtful morality and social standing. Such behaviors often included drinking or drug use, gambling, high spending (particularly in pursuit of fashion, as through clothing as well as servants and houses), and sexual promiscuity...later it became a euphemism for a courtesan or prostitute." - your friendly neighborhood Wikipedia
> 
> At the turn of the century, courtesans made their living in a similar way to prostitutes: that is, they traded sex for money. Different from prostitutes, though, demi-mondes (translated as half-world) were their own social class. Depending on their social standing, they only offered services to the very wealthy. They were celebrities, appearing in the papers as the root cause of scandal and drama in the upper scions of Parisian society. Most courtesans were known for their exceptional beauty, 
> 
> An interesting breed indeed, some recommended reading about courtesans (or recommended watching, if you might be partial to the 1958 film of the same name) would be "Gigi", the 1944 novella by Colette. 
> 
> You can also check out "Courtesans: Money, Sex and Fame in the Nineteenth Century" by Katie Hickman.
> 
> I was reading up about demi-mondes after having seen "Gigi" (the film), and the only thought that kept running through my mind was, "this is so totally and completely what Dick Grayson would be doing if he was running around in the 1900's". 
> 
> Characters will be tagged as they appear, among other tags. I've never published anything to this site, so please let me need to know if I need to tag anything I'm leaving out. 
> 
> Just to clarify: there won't really be any French spoken by the characters. Just passing words of affection, as well as the chapter titles. If I make any translation errors, please don't hesitate to correct me! Please enjoy this story, and thank you for reading!

2nd of January, 1900

 

_Dick,_

_It has been a few months since my last letter, and even longer since our last meeting. How fitting that at the turn of the century my life also turns into a nightmare._

_My dearest and oldest friend, I’m afraid I have some grave news.  My father has passed. I will tell you in the utmost confidence that my mum and I are far more aghast at the loss of Robert’s income than him, himself._

_Organizing a funeral is so much work. Did you know they sell coffins that cost £450? I chuckled when the mortician showed me that one. I asked him if it was fair that corpses could have nicer dwellings than half of Britain, but he didn’t seem too amused. It was right then that I thought of you, Dick. I’ve missed someone who can appreciate my humor so._

_Anyway, my Aunt Iris out in Brighton has agreed to put my mother up for a while, bless her heart. But I still worry about the future. Robert left us enough to live comfortably for a bit, but not forever. I’ve decided to put the apartment up for sale and use the funds to purchase something in a more modest part of London. Maybe live off of that for a while and see if my Uncle Barry will give me a job at his power plant. But I can’t do any of that until I turn eighteen in a few weeks. I’ll finally be a man, but I know I’ll still feel far too young to want to deal with any of these financial things._

_It’s rather funny, actually. Remember my last letter a few months back? When my entire extended family got together for my cousin’s wedding in Glasgow? Uncle Barry was there, and we were standing before this marvelous ice sculpture. It was in the shape of my family’s crest (you know, with the lightning bolt). It had every colour of light imaginable pouring through it, and it looked like liquid glass. Suddenly, I felt a strong hand on my shoulder. Barry, his cheeks flushed with champagne, mussed my hair and smiled sadly at me. He said:_

_“No real man has hair_ that color.”

_I can tell he meant it, too. Perhaps I won’t be a man after all; that’s a small relief._

_But you know, all of this tragedy happening to me has reminded me of you, Dick. I only realize now how strong you were, leaving London to go carve your own path at this age. You must have been so lonely and unsure. That’s how I feel, anyways._

_I’ve decided to take a small trip to Paris while I still have the means, to mourn and to sort my life out.  May I call upon you when I visit in the coming months? I know we haven’t seen each other in nearly half a decade now, I would like very much to be able to see you. I suppose this means I’ll have to brush up on my French._

_Should you agree, please wire me your Parisian address. I am arriving the 29 th of April. _

_Yours,_

_Wallace West_


	2. Rien de Mieux

There were worse things than fucking Bruce Wayne.

He wondered what Wally would think if he saw him like this: breath hot and ragged, skin glistening with sweat, long legs splayed wide like some common whore.

Dick could see it. His oldest and dearest friend bursting through his bedroom door, scarlet hair shining like Georgia clay in the still twilight. Those green eyes would fill with disgust when he saw how their bodies fit together so perfectly.

Wally would gesture at the muscular American, disbelief on his face. _Strangest Revolutionary War reenactment I’ve ever seen,_ he’d say. _The British’ve been getting fucked by the States for years now, but you’ve gone far too literal, Dick._ Then maybe he’d laugh that laugh and—

The _demi-monde_ ’s vision was interrupted by a particularly hard thrust from Bruce that nearly knocked the air from his lungs. The young man gasped and readjusted his legs’ grip around Wayne’s waist, trying to find a position that didn’t allow him to penetrate as deeply. Dick looked up into his employer’s blue eyes and saw his mistake.

Bruce froze immediately, his lips curled into a frown. The demi-monde shifted his arms where they were wrapped around the other’s neck and pulled that handsome face closer.

Dick smiled shyly, the candlelight washing over the hills and valleys of his elegant features like gentle breaks of ocean against shore. He breathed his thanks and traced his right thumb over the shell of Wayne’s ear.

Wordlessly, the American withdrew from Dick’s tight, all-consuming heat, the _demi-monde_ whining in complaint all the while. Wayne slid back, gently loosening Grayson’s grip from around his neck. He stood up straight at the edge of the bed then, Dick’s legs still splayed and locked behind tops of his muscular thighs.

“I was fine,” he insisted, staring up at Bruce with his best pout.

 

* * *

 

The American had arrived at seven-thirty, sporting a charcoal cutaway coat and onyx tie to match. He had a small, blue parcel in his left hand.

All the oil lights in the flat had long since been turned low. Barbra and Tim had spent the better part of the late, golden afternoon hours covering nearly every horizontal surface with candles, which now created a soft, rosy glow around their guest. The light guided him down the hall like an otherworldly halo.

Bruce stepped through the threshold into the gainly little bedroom; he fondly noted that all the furniture was done in shades of Persian blue. Even the window frame that yawned open to the black night, like the hollow of a tree, was a lovely indigo. The April air stirred and swayed the many candles’ flames, creating the dappled vision of a blue canopy. On the far wall the dark bed, that treasured nest, stood empty and inviting, like a promise known but not quite kept. A very naked Dick Grayson greeted him in the center of it all.

The _demi-monde_ strode towards him then, immediately dropping to his knees and fumbling with the buttons on the American’s Henderson trousers.

Wayne frowned and wordlessly hooked a hand beneath Dick’s underarm, pulling the shorter man to his feet. Dick’s brows scrunched together, insulted, until he saw the blue parcel held out to him. Wayne’s voice, like slow gravel, ordered him to take the gift.

Dick placed the present on the blue bureau beside him, unopened. He grabbed Bruce’s large hands in his own and pulled him over to the bed. Gingerly, he began to undress the American. Beneath his charcoal coat (now thrown over the corner chair) was a burgundy vest that shone like dark wine. Each of the five golden buttons seemed to mock Dick, glinting playfully in the candlelight.

While Dick attacked the buttons, Bruce loosed the knot of his slate, silken tie. He looked down at the younger man, bemused by the expression on his face. Dick’s features crumpled together as he channeled his entire being into unclasping the damn things. So far he’d only managed two.

Maybe if he hadn’t gotten so drunk beforehand. But Dick always drank on the nights Bruce Wayne came. Each time, without fail, the anticipation of his arrival would bring a stirring of _something_ in his stomach, a sensation that was quite foreign and, frankly, unwelcome.

Much to the chagrin of Tim, Barbra, and Connor, he never ate the day before the American visited. For the longest time he insisted, more to himself than his servants, that it was for hygiene and not nerves. But he knew, and they knew.

Oftentimes, he’d drink himself into a dreamlike state. A handsome man: dark, brooding, and perfect would appear in the haze of his candlelit room like a beacon of heat in the cool, spring night. They’d fuck like animals and lay in airy silence afterwards. Dick’s ear would listen for the echo of the man’s heart just to prove he was real.

Sometimes, he was Bruce Wayne. Sometimes, Dick could have sworn he was someone else.

“ _Finally_ ,” the _demi-monde_ sighed, having undone the last button. He pulled the sides of the vest apart like drapes in the morning; in the sun’s stead, however, was a view that Dick considered far more appealing. 

He could see the outline of Bruce’s muscular torso through his thin, silken dress shirt. Dick suddenly paled.

Ten more buttons. The dancing candlelight reflected in their beady pearl bodies was practically the glimmer of laughter. Bruce intervened then, reaching for the clasps himself. In the golden, hazy light it was easy to see Dick’s grateful smile.

Dick craned his neck backwards, red lips parted lazily. Bruce pulled the _demi-monde_ close and let one large hand rest on the small of his back; the other slowly traced from the cleft of Dick’s chin to the edge of his jawline.

Wayne felt the man lean into his touch, practically nuzzling his right hand.

There was nothing better than fucking Bruce Wayne.


	3. Le beau endroit

Dick felt the pride warming his chest when Wally stepped through the threshold of his apartment, jaw hanging agape and exposing that dark, pink tongue. The foyer was modestly sized, but the vaulted ceilings made the room seem sweeping and grand. From every wall, sizeable mirrors hung; each of their frames were constructed to look like the trunk of a thin birch with vines winding every which way.

Between the mirrors and the grand, crystal chandelier that sent rainbow flecks of light scattering across the room like shards of stained glass, Wally felt like he had just stepped foot into a golden forest at sunset.

“West, these are my servants: Timothy Drake, Barbara Gordon, and Connor Kent.” As Dick said each of their names, the boys each gave a little bow, Barbara a curtsey. Wally smiled at each of them, silently noting that they were dressed better than half the people he’d passed in the street.

Connor, the tallest of the bunch, was dressed in all black: a silk button-down shirt and dress pants. The man had two, faded handprints on his shirt, as though he’d been cooking with flour and forgot to wear an apron; the redhead bit his lip and lowered his eyes to hide his smile. He removed his brown coat and handed it to the taller servant.

Tim immediately stepped forward to collect Wally’s luggage, despite being the smallest of the three. A red fragment of light bounced off his white shirt as he hefted the bags up, shouldering past Connor to the guest bedroom. Dick called his thanks to Tim down the hallway after him before sidling up behind his old friend.

“Now, Barb, I’m sure our guest is here starving after all that travelling,” the _demi-monde_ said, bringing his hands down on Wally’s shoulders so that they made an impressive clapping sound. The boy jumped under Dick’s touch, his entire body rigid. “Why don’t you serve us some breakfast?”

“Of course, won’t you follow me to the kitchen, Wallace?”

As the three of them walked down the hall, Wally felt the warmth from Dick’s hands seep through his porcelain dress shirt. He kept his eyes trained on Barbara’s flowing brown dress and apron to distract himself. As they entered the dining room, the smell of bacon wafted through the double, eight-paneled oak doors that led to the kitchen.

Dick pulled one of the dining room chairs out and gestured for his guest to sit with an inviting smile.

“It’s damn beautiful in here.”

Grayson smiled thoughtfully as Barbara and Connor began to lay out breakfast before them. The plates were white, with a laurel wreath pattern embossed around the middle. Heaping stacks of bacon, potatoes, eggs, and fruit were placed before them.

“He hardly ever eats this well,” Tim suddenly whispered into Wally’s flushed ear, having returned from dealing with the bags. “He’s just showing off ‘cause he’s got a guest.”

Dick reached across the small, four-sided table to yank at Tim’s ear. The mock sadness in his face was betrayed by the glinting of mischief in his blue eyes.

“Drake, I’m going to have to have Connor punish you for ratting me out.”

Wally’s green eyes suddenly widened, and panic overtook his features. He didn’t want to be responsible for getting anyone punished. “Dick, please, there’s no need-”

The _demi-monde_ released Tim’s ear immediately and sat back in his chair. “I was just joking,” he backpedaled quickly. But that vulpine expression returned to his face once more, “besides, Drake _likes_ when Connor punishes him, eh?”

Barbara nearly dropped the silver pitcher of coffee she’d been carrying to the table. She burst into laughter and patted her employer’s head affectionately with her free hand. Tim just huffed and stormed out of the room.

“He’s still so young, Dick. You shouldn’t tease him so,” Barbara scolded. “They both are, actually,” she mused, turning her gaze to Connor. He appeared stoic despite his employer’s comments. “Like talking to an ice sculpture,” the maid rolled her eyes. “You ought to apologize to Drake if you want to get any more work out of him today.”

The master of the housegrinned. “Babs, _you_ ought to teach him that I only make fun of him _because_ he’s so dramatic about it all.” He raised his sterling silver cup of coffee by the flared handle and took a sip. “But I’ll apologize to him after breakfast, you’re right.”

Wally could hardly believe the scene he’d just witnessed. These servants seemed more like family to Dick than employees. He smiled at the thought, how so like his old friend; Grayson had always been so kind and friendly to others. But more importantly, Wally was glad that Dick hadn’t been alone in a foreign place all these months. He had not only the loyalty of servants, but the kind of pure loyalty that is given freely: the loyalty of friends.

“So, West, I’ve decided where we shall go today. I need to take care of some business this afternoon at a wonderful place. The drinks will be free, of course.”

Wally bit into a thick slice of bacon, savoring the salty, September taste on his tongue as he nodded. Of course, Dick would always be working. How else could he afford a place like this?

“And how long are you planning to stay in Paris, do you think?”

The redhead swallowed, licking his lips before replying, “Well,” he paused, “I suppose it actually depends on how long you’re willing to let me stay here. I’d pay for anything you asked, like my own food,” he chuckled and a gestured in a sweeping sort of way, “but the rent might be a bit too rich for my blood.”

“I own the place, actually.” Dick punctuated this by popping a grape into his mouth.

Wally chuckled, “You make me feel so inferior sometimes, Grayson. I had convinced myself for my ego that this was just a really fancy hotel.”

“Don’t insult me, West. This place is nicer than even the _Ritz Paris._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do a lot of research while writing this story to be as historically accurate as possible. Hence why the writing process is so slow. The Ritz Paris that Dick mentions is a real Parisian hotel that opened in 1898 (it’s still in operation today!). 
> 
> I’d say that one of the things that surprised me the most about the turn of the century is that the technology was quite advanced. Not in a computational way, but still, feats of architecture and mathematics are nothing to sneeze at.


	4. Au Salon de Glace

“Haven’t you ever seen an ice rink?” Dick chuckled, his tone jovial in its disbelief.

Though the frigid air of the _Salon_ brought relief from the May heat to its patrons, everywhere the height of Parisian society sipped champagne chilled cooler still. From the mezzanine, Wally could most easily see the women, in true spring fashion, wearing plumage of the most vibrant colors.  Whenever one skated through the ring of sunshine that cut across the rink, a magnificent circle of color followed her shadow on the ice like a halo.

 Their table was right next to the railing, affording the pair a wonderful view of the _Salon._ The protective bars were twisted into a peculiar sort of bird-pattern and covered in gold leaf.

Wally still made no intention to respond; instead, he angled his head down, staring at the graceful figures that skated by. He looked like a man who has suffered enough to know when to appreciate a beautiful thing.

He has changed much, Dick thought. There was a new flash of wisdom in those green eyes.

Two glasses of _Novyi Svit_ champagne were swiftly placed on their table, courtesy of the maître d'. He had kept his keen eyes on Grayson and his companion from the moment they walked in the door. The _demi-monde_ said a few grateful words to the waiter in French before lifting his glass by the stem, turning to his three-o’clock, and raising the flute out over the railing towards the peckish host, bowing his head slightly as he did so.

“Please, have a seat,” tried Dick, turning back to face his bewitched friend. His words, again, were ignored. Reaching across the table to gently grab Wally’s gloved hand, Dick savored the sliding of silk against the flesh of his arm. He made a mental note to thank Bruce for the new shirt.

Haltingly, the boy allowed himself to be coaxed into his wooden chair. The redhead shifted his gaze from his seated friend to the pattern on the railing. His head tilted to the side, the line of his body asking a question.

“They’re penguins,” Dick answered, rolling the stem of his champagne glass between lithe fingers. “All the waiters are dressed like them too.” He raised the pale gold to his lips and smiled. Wally may have changed, but Dick could still read him. Still understand him. Confidence washed over him then, though he wondered whether it was from his enduring ability to comprehend Wally or just the alcohol.

“It’s beautiful,” Wally said at last, his green eyes having absorbed all they could. “But I barely understand all this,” he gestured to the rink. “How does the ice stay frozen in this heat? What makes the people glide over it so effortlessly? I swear,” he paused to smile, “the women all look like they’re about to take flight.”

 “My, the juvenile certainly has a penchant for poetry, doesn’t he?”

The pair turned to face a peculiarly short man who had appeared at the side of their table. Wally knitted his red brows together. Though he was pleasantly surprised to hear someone speaking English, the visage that belonged to the speaker was surely less than pleasant.

The mysterious Englishman was dressed to the nines, his appearance similar to that of the waiters who shuffled about. But, the air with which he carried himself could never be found in a common servant. Coupled with his language, Wally deduced he was a born aristocrat.

The patrician shifted his grip on the cane, and Wally peered between the man’s fat fingers; the solid gold handle also had the shape of a penguin. Wally could at least admire the man’s commitment.

“Oswald,” Dick said coolly, standing up in acknowledgement of the man. He bowed a slight, regal bow before reclaiming his seat.

Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot shifted his grip to the collar of his cane. Wally noted the heavy glistening of sweat on the exposed golden handle with a grimace. Poor bird.

His green eyes widened as he witnessed another unfortunate avian: Cobblepot had reached out towards Dick’s face with his free hand. The _demi-monde_ ’s expression did not change as he allowed the stubby fingers to trace across his jawline. Wally felt the subtle nudge of his friend’s foot against his shin and wiped the disgust from his face faster a cloud blotting out the sun.

“You’re looking well, _mon joli oiseau_ ,” Oswald crooned.

Dick’s brilliant eyes were now half-lidded, and he flitted his gaze over to Wally. “Wallace, this is Oswald Cobblepot. He owns the _Salon de Glace._ ”

The mobster wasted no time, his gaze following Dick’s.  As his narrow eyes raked across Wally’s freckle-dusted face, the redhead marveled at how such a fat man could look so _starved_. The boy drew a quick breath and parted his red lips to speak, but thought better of it.

“You keep fine-looking company, Grayson,” Cobblepot said, his long nose bobbing as he nodded in approval. His hands both came to rest on the grip of his cane. “Your drinks are on the house, as always.” He grinned at the _demi-monde_ , who smiled his thanks in a perfectly charming fashion.

“I didn’t know you were back in t—” Dick began, pausing when Oswald held up a short, bejeweled finger. He pulled out his silver Schaffhausen pocket watch, tutting when he saw the time.

“I haven’t time to catch up with you right now, pretty bird,” Cobblepot admitted, the apology genuine in his voice. The shorter man slowly ran a finger across the top of Dick’s shoulders and leaned over to whisper in his ear. “Shall we say, seven o’clock this Saturday evening?”

Dick hesitated ever so slightly, gauging Wally’s poorly-disguised bewilderment. He looked over his left shoulder so that his face was only inches from the mobster’s, his blue eyes clouded with faux lust. “Oh, Ozzie, you know I would,” Dick said, pausing to throw in a wistful sigh. “I just get so booked up these days, I’m afraid. It’ll have to be…next week at least,” he murmured, his breath hot.

“Next Wednesday, then.”

“I look forward to it,” Grayson replied breathily, fluttering his eyelashes for good measure.

He’s one hell of an actor, Wally thought. His face suddenly turned grim when he considered that Dick might not actually _be_ acting.

His fat cheeks newly flushed, Oswald Cobblepot righted himself and puffed out his chest. The little man sauntered away with a kick in his step and a huge grin on his face.

Dick felt Wally’s viridian eyes boring into the side of his face. He refused to even acknowledge his friend until Oswald had waddled away.

“We’ll discuss it at home,” Dick stated simply, his voice even and calm.

“Then let’s go home,” Wally replied. He stood from his chair and beckoned for Dick to follow. The _demi-monde_ snorted incredulously and ran a pale hand through his dark hair.

“You haven’t even touched your champagne. Stuff’s expensive.”

“It looks _cheap_ to me.”

“Come on, don’t you know?” Grayson’s blue eyes flashed playfully as he tutted his finger in mock disapproval. “Never look a gift penguin in the mouth.” Wally scoffed and looked down at his friend.

“You sure _looking_ is all you’ve been doing with that fat, old bird?”

Dick set his jaw, his eyes cold. Wally could see the little twitch of muscle under his high cheekbones as he clenched his teeth.  The longer he looked, the more shame he felt creep in. He’d meant it to be playful, like the easy banter that had forged their friendship.

Dick scowled, running a hand through his slick, inky hair. “We can’t fight here. I don’t want to make a scene and have it show up in all the papers.” Act like you’re having a perfectly marvelous time, and I will tell you anything you want to know when we get home,” he hissed through gritted teeth.

Wally considered this for a moment. Begrudgingly, he sat back down and lifted his champagne glass. Dick’s features relaxed, and he clinked the delicate rims together.

“Don’t forget to look happy. Let's skate.”

Wally's ears turned a rosy pink as Dick led him to the ice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you know? Ice rinks have actually been around since the 1840's! Funnily enough, this is one of the first chapters I wrote for this story, all the way back in August. Written before I totally got obsessed with Yuri on Ice, even. Guess it was a cruel twist of fate...
> 
> Fun fact, Novyi Svit champage became world famous when it won a contest at the 1900 Worlds Exhibition Fair in... yep, Paris! Would have happened a few weeks before our story began. The Salon de Glace really cares about its image.
> 
> By the way, Schaffhausen watches are a Swiss brand, founded in 1874. You can still get them today (if you're wealthy, that is).


	5. Comme le verre de mer

The Bois de Boulogne park was teeming with Parisians on such a day. They'd left the ice rink to take a walk, for Dick had gotten too tipsy to skate any longer. Crisp, May sunshine beat down on the waxy leaves of the trees that lined the dirt road. Swirling streams of dusty earth rose out from behind the carriages that passed, like comets’ tails, only filthier; the walls of foliage had been planted in such a way so as to protect the parkgoers from that less-than-picturesque reality.

It was quite impossible to be anything but bashful on such a day, that first, beautiful day of late spring. Banished was the cold grip of winter, and time began its cheerful march towards summer. It was the kind of day that one ought to appreciate: for stretched out before you is the entire summer, with the promise of plentiful food and warmth. And the parties! Any well-to-do Parisian would look forward to the season’s first barbeque.

Everyone was surely in high spirits; the park had seldom seen a more crowded day.

Our pair of Englishmen were strolling along a smaller path that lay parallel to the road. Their feet raised clouds of dust as they walked, and it made Dick feel rather important once he’d realized. He puffed out his chest and began to walk a grand stride, possessing all the confidence of a bride parading down the aisle.

They passed by colorfully dressed women sitting on benches, trying to attract men in vain. Their massive, frilly dresses made then look like flowers. More like Venus flytraps, Wally mused, unable to stop from grinning at his own joke. He turned his head sideways to hide his smile from Dick, and in the process accidentally shifted his gaze towards an olive-skinned woman.

He spotted her suddenly, silks impossibly greener than the pines and grass among which she sat. Like the pleasing glimmer of sea glass on an August shore, Wally swore he could feel the coastal breeze nipping playfully at his skin. He had never even visited a beach, and yet this remarkable youth evoked the sweet, clear image of a darling cape town.

Blonde waves tumbled from her emerald hat, a deliciously wide-brimmed and woven thing. Her tiny ankles were crossed in a proper manner, but they were a stark contrast to the obscene angle her back arched off the bench upon which she sat.

Wally craned his flushed neck to see her as the pair drew nearer, but the edge of her hat concealed nearly all of her face. Save for a sharp chin and a set jaw, he saw nothing. Dick followed his friend’s gaze, and gave a low chuckle. He ran a hand through his black hair.

The woman in green raised her head at the low laughter of the demi-monde, just in time to lock eyes with the mystified Wally.

He gasped and averted his gaze. Grey eyes. A few footfalls later, the pair had passed by the bench where she sat. Wally consoled his heart to quiet and slow, like one would a stubborn mare. He wondered, should I look back? Some mysterious force, the same one responsible for those caresses made of ocean wind, urged him to turn around.

Nonsense, he thought. Have I no pride? Am I naive enough to be so taken with a woman whose name I shall never know?

And yet, he thought, the moment their eyes met it felt as though some finite and terrible truth had laid itself bare before him.

 

* * *

 

She is wearing green. A green that blended perfectly with the scene of the park. He holds his head up high, chest pushed outwards like a military general of the highest quality. His hands are clasped behind his back; the rhythm of his steps thrumming as steadily as his heartbeat.

Dick was making some nonsense banter, intent to keep the conversation about himself. But Wally had never seen anyone, anywhere –

The demi-monde let out a tawdry laugh, the sort that every person has employed at some point or another to convince everyone in the vicinity that they’re having a perfectly marvelous time. But Wally heard the hollowness of it as plainly as one hears the echoes of a tired cavern. Dick’s laughter had never seemed so lifeless before.

Wally suddenly felt as though he was aboard Charon’s boat, halfway ‘cross the river Styx. For at no point in his life up until now had he felt so polarized by his surroundings. Beside him was Dick’s empty laughter, that endless grey and black death that reminded Wally so much of the well-trodden path to the underworld.

Though death is not without the ability to stir life, he thinks with a grimace. On the other side was the mysterious maiden: a fresh, emerald spirit that winked and beckoned him over to the land of the living.

The young woman turned her attention to Dick’s tittering. Suddenly, their eyes meet, and it is as though…

The redhead thinks and thinks. What is it like? A mist has lifted? A door has opened? No, neither of those tired clichés.

Though his mind works quicker than the tendrils of electricity that haunt his uncle’s power plant, he can find no equal to describe it. He knows it is a feeling known to every person, and in that moment he finds a new appreciation for the literature and art and music of the world that seeks to explain what he cannot.

Now he is a fractured man, acting upon not high cognition but defaulting back to his primordial failsafe. He lowers his eyelids ever so slightly and feels the blush blossom across the high set of his cheekbones. His green eyes do not leave her charcoal gaze as he approaches.

She offers a gloved hand. He accepts, bowing and kissing her middle and ring fingers. Dick, as emotionless as the catalytic laughter that caused this encounter in the first place, watches in silence.

“Good afternoon, sir.”

“Having met you, miss, I think ‘good’ would no longer do this day justice.”

“You flatter me sir, but surely a haiku is too much?” Her smile is lopsided and mysterious.

 

* * *

 

 

She is wearing green. A green that, Wally realized, is familiar to him because it is the same green he sees in his own eyes.

Every surface of Maxim’s was coated in a thin layer of ash; the glass ashtrays old and elegant and, apparently, just for show as far as the clientele were concerned. Dick had finally let him visit the famed restaurant, on the condition that he didn’t speak to anybody.

Maxim’s was the central hub for high Parisian society. Anybody and everybody well-off in the city of Paris could be found there. There was never an empty room at Maxim’s, and never a room without a beautiful woman or man: they were practically part of the furniture. That was the charm of the place.

There was hardly any empty space between the sea of white tablecloths and glossy wooden chairs, and any other gaps were filled by the colorful dresses of the women. Each room seemed a white puzzle held together by vibrantly hued adhesive. The air was so thick with cigar smoke that there was barely any left to breathe. As though to make up for this fact, all sorts of plants and trees and shrubbery could be found every which way. The place was a veritable jungle: the people were all savages of a different breed though. Impeccably dressed, but wild all the same.

Maxim’s was a place that remade reality in its own image, shaping high Parisian society in the process. The place was run by a legendary beauty known as Pamela Isley. Always dressed in green and never without a rose in her hand, Isley was a cunning creature with all the charms of a woman but the eyes of something else. No one was really sure how she came into possession of Maxim’s, whether she inherited it, bought it outright, or acquired it though more…scandalous means. And at Maxim’s, scandal was the name of the game. 

“Don’t worry about talking to anyone,” Dick smirked, “all the women will be so beautiful there, you’ll be as frozen and mute as you were in front of the _elegant_ Artemis Crock.”

The way he imagined Dick saying elegant dripped with disrespect. Wally wasn’t exactly sure what history those two had to make Dick dislike her so. He would have to ask Barbara or Tim about it sometime. The other one didn’t seem to friendly.

As their carriage had pulled up, Wally imagined a pang of nervousness in his stomach. He looked over at Dick. What trust his friend had in him! One wrong move within those mirror-covered walls and Dick’s reputation could be lost forever. Still in the privacy of the carriage, he imagined the demi-monde taking one of his hands and rubbing it reassuringly.

Wally’s mind began to wander. Surely the real Dick would be just as kind? He couldn’t say for sure, but sincerely hoped so. And, just why exactly had he imagined Dick’s reassurance coming in the form of held hands? He banished the thought.

As he stepped though the double doors, the redhead was greeted by the suffocating smog of cigar and cigarette smoke. The familiar, pretty tune of _Maryland, my Maryland_ was coming faintly from the main dining room.

He imagined that the décor was not what evoked the luxurious aura, but rather the gaggle of impeccably dressed Parisians. The men puffed on cigars as short and stout as The Penguin. The women were bedecked with jewelry pilfered straight from the pages of the _Arabian Nights._

All the lights in the room seem to dim when he sees her. The stirring glow of candlelight around her like the moon’s reflection on windy waters. Their eyes meet, and with a wave of her hand she banishes the two blonde suitors sitting beside her.

He walks over to her, catching Grayson’s disapproving eye in one of the hundreds of mirrors that Isley deemed an acceptable alternative to wallpaper. Pushing the guilt aside, he knows he would be guiltier still if he didn’t talk to her the second time around.

“Ah, the eloquent gentleman from the park,” she says in French, which is actually English in Wally’s mind.

Oh damn! He thinks, horrified. I can’t speak French! His thoughts suddenly start racing. A translator? Dick would never play middleman for me, not if she’s involved.

Did she maybe speak English? Where was she from? Was Artemis a British or American name, maybe? No, idiot, he answered himself. Artemis is obviously a Greek name since, uh, she’s a Greek goddess.

Well I don’t speak Greek or Roman or anything like that, he thinks.

He went back and forth like this for a while before settling on a plan. He’d come up with what to say in English, then translate and memorize it…and hope her responses were exactly what he planned for…?

Alright, so it wasn’t the greatest idea. He would think of something better tomorrow. He would learn French if he had to.

He turned back to Maxim’s and the lovely woman sitting before him.

“Ever the wordsmith, aren’t you?”

“I’m sure you hear this so often that it’s boring, but it find it hard to articulate with a lady as fine as you in my presence. I should want to impress you with my words.”

“And yet,” she chuckles, a wonderful sound so unlike Grayson’s insincerity from earlier. “I am not quite impressed.”

“Are you not impressed, though, with how taken I am with you? A woman I have met only twice, yet has rendered me speechless every time.”

Artemis smiles in a cunning way, like the veteran chess player faced with the naive strategy of a newcomer. “Is your verbal stumbling truly a cause of my beauty, my red-haired friend, or is it from your own incompetence?”

“Undoubtedly both. Might I ask your name?”

“Artemis Crock, sir.”

“I see, you are in possession of a radiance matched only by your namesake. Like the midnight moon and the tides, your eyes have pulled me into your wake.”

“ _C’est très joli monsier,_ but it is not quite Shakespeare.”

“And you are very beautiful, but you are not quite a goddess.”

Artemis grinned, reaching upwards to cover her mouth in a dainty sort of fashion. Her chest and shoulders shook slightly as the grin devolved into a laugh.

“And you, belated poet. What is your name?”

“Wallace West.”

“Hm, alliteration _and_ a cardinal direction. Well, Wallace West, yours shall be a name I shall not soon forget.”

 

* * *

 

Wally let his eyes open, the room still dark around him.

Oh, how he longed for these precious minutes at the end of every day. Moments like these, where his mind was free to wander. The encounter in the park with Artemis, whose name he had coaxed out of Dick with astonishing ease, still lingered in his mind.

He wished he could have said half the things he’d been imagining all day, like the scene at Maxim’s just now. But no encounter goes nearly as well as one engineered in the mind. He’d imagined meeting her more than ten different ways, silently berating himself each time for not saying any of the clever things he’d thought up.

Wally felt awash in sudden determination. He would see her again, he vowed. And when he did, he’d impress her for sure. Some type of poetry, definitely. Maybe he should avoid insulting her, even if it was all in good fun. No, no, she ought to have a sense of humor, surely? He was proud of that haiku, he’d have to work it in somehow.

He closed his eyes again.

She is wearing green…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my goodness, I am so sorry it's been so long! I'll be writing a bit more now, and I'm making the chapters longer as you have all requested. 
> 
> The song referenced in this chapter is Maryland, My Maryland, an old tune. If you'd like the hear the "pretty" version, I'd recommend the Gone with the Wind version. All the music from that movie is rather nice to listen to, if you like the sound of the Old World. 
> 
> I'm of the mind that the aesthetic and music of those times are the only things worth holding on to. None of the sexism, racism, child labor, sickness, or other terrible things are fitting anymore. The clothes and the architecture were and are still beautiful (if you were rich), but make no mistake: despite setting this story in 1900, I don't long for the "good old days". There is no better time to be alive than right now.
> 
> Enjoy this chapter. As always, thank you for reading!


	6. L'alchimiste

Warm steam hung around the bathroom, cloying to pale skin and causing virgin sweat to pool upon his brow. 

Grayson had permitted his guest to use the master bath that evening, and it was a luxurious affair. _Just like everything else in the damn city_ , the Englishman thought with a grimace.

On the far end of the bathroom was a porcelain tub with clawed feet of bronze; like a great, white beast, it sat before a bay window adorned with silky, white curtains that did little to block the light. Everywhere, the white-marble flooring was slick with humidity and afternoon sunshine.

The only colors he could see came from upon the shelves: the dark oak was stocked with various soaps, perfumes, and viscous oils in glass bottles of varying size. It seemed wrong somehow, like he’d accidentally intruded into an alchemist’s laboratory. So crowded were the shelves that Wally felt compelled to step and speak lightly, lest he cause any of the bottles to fall.

Strangely, almost none of the collection seemed as though it had ever been opened. Of the few that had, their contents were barely less than half full. Dick had spent goodness knows how much on these goods, only to leave most of them completely untouched. Slowly, visions began to fill Wally’s mind of the beggars and veterans he’d seen in the streets of Paris. It wasn’t fair, when people were living in such filth just beyond the window.

All around him, the bottles continued to glint in the afternoon sun, unthreatening and beautiful. Dick and the rest of his ilk lived in a pretty, dream of a world. Wally wondered whether his friend ever really considered his wealth, whether he remembered what it was like to be uncertain of the roof over his head.

He’d already bathed, a white towel wrapped around his waist. The servants had insisted that he allow them in, and he was certain it had been Tim who pounded on the white door until he relented.

The young man leaned his head back in the basin, eyes shut and peaceful. He welcomed the visions of Artemis that flitted by, though in truth the boy was distracted by how distant Dick had been towards him lately. He was trying not to take Dick's strange mood personally, but it still hurt. He just had to know for sure, had to know that it wasn't his fault. He wanted answers.

Luckily, Barbara’s gentle touches as she combed his hair worked like a tonic on him. With the familiar rustling of Barbara’s brown dress, and that knowing smile of hers, the boy barely minded tilting his head further into the water-filled sink, exposing his pale neck. Save for the passing burn of his eye where she’d been too liberal with the shampoo, Wally found himself quite content. He felt himself relax more and more until his mind was blissfully empty.

Suddenly, the loud echo of metal on marble caused him to tense. Wincing at the sound, his green eyes flew open and he moved to sit up.

“It’s just Tim,” Barbara murmured, pushing her wet hands down on the boy’s shoulders to try and still him. “He’s going to work on those feet of yours.” Wally settled into the chair and leaned his head back once more. The maid waited until his eyes were closed to allow herself a small smirk down at Tim. 

“You’re a braver man than I.”

Tim ignored her, hiding his grin by busying himself with unlocking the metal case at Wally’s feet. 

She poured a jug of warm water over Wally’s hair, careful to avoid his face. Picking up a creamy, white towel, she gently began to dry his hair, marveling at the color. She’d seen hair that color before, of course, on the women from Maxim’s that Dick sometimes brought home, but it had surely been dyed. Their hair was too vibrant, she reasoned, and often uneven in shade. 

Her own hair was a lighter red than Wally’s, not as deep or bold a color. The boy’s was a true red _,_ like the fine red of a fox.

As the servant looked down at the hairs messily splayed across the cream-colored linen, she shook her head in appreciation. Half of the women in Paris would kill for hair this color. As she considered the rest of his face, her eyes widened slightly in surprise: even the boy’s eyelashes were red.  

By the time Tim had drawn another stone basin of water and began to soak Wally’s feet in them, the boy was sitting up, towel ‘round his shoulders and a few strands of hair falling onto his forehead. _Not unattractively,_ she mused. 

 

* * *

 

Dick had retreated to his study in the days since their encounter with Cobblepot. He wasn’t hiding, he’d reassured himself. He could talk to Wally any time he wished: he just didn’t want to right now. Besides, he already knew. He just had to know.

And if he already knew, there was little use in telling him, was there? Wally would surely think that Dick meant to insult his intelligence. Why, he would feel equally as foolish informing someone that water was wet, or that Artemis Crock was a classless little churl. 

Suddenly, the sun came out from behind a cloud, throwing dappled light through the trees and into his room. The _demi-monde’s_ ice blue eyes were drawn dangerously to the decanter of bourbon on his desk, the sunshine twinkling playfully upon the crystal.

Grayson paused. He didn’t care much for the taste of bourbon, but he _did_ want to be drunk right now. Anything to free the tightness in his chest. Ever since he’d promised Wally the truth, he’d been riddled with stress.

At once, he relented and reached over to the serving platter. The dark, honey-colored liquid sparkled innocently as he grabbed a glass. The familiar clink of crystal-on-crystal as he poured himself a modest drink evoked an expectant response in his innards. Already his throat felt dry in anticipation, and his stomach burned as though he’d already had a few. Swiftly and not without much wincing, he downed the drink.

Just as he felt the heat rise to his cheeks and the phantom burn in his stomach turn real, Wally stormed in.

Grayson pondered him for a moment. The boy looked good, clearly his servants had done their job. His hair was parted to the side and had a healthy shine; a few strands of red fell onto his forehead. _Not unattractively_ , he mused.

Wally crossed his arms and stood expectantly on the other side of the dark, wooden desk while Dick watched him. His green eyes catalogued he room, including the flush of his host’s cheeks and the empty glass in his hand.

“You can have your servants pamper me all you like, Grayson,” Wally said, careful to keep his tone even and calm, “but you still owe me an explanation for that spectacle at the Glass Saloon.”

Dick scrunched his nose and snorted incredulously. “You _know_ that’s not right _.”_

His friend merely stared in reply. So, this was serious then, if he wasn’t smiling. Grayson felt his stomach churn, in no small part due to the alcohol. He didn’t want to speak with Wally about this. He certainly didn’t want to ruin this friendship, didn’t want Wally to see him any differently than he had before. It had been so wonderful to have someone in his life just treat him normally, to not have them know. Damn it.

“What do you think I am?” He settled on, at last.

“I’m sure I already know.”  
  
“Then why-”

“I want you to say it.”

His cheeks burned with shame, and he looked at Wally with open contempt. He hoped his face didn’t betray the loss he suddenly felt. Of course he knew. His friend was sure to storm out of the room any second now and start packing his things.

“I’m a _demi-monde._ I spend time with clients for money, or clothing, or,” he paused to gesture at the apartment around him, “this.”

“So, you’re a whore.”

_Yes._

Grayson was about to utter the word, mouth already open, when his eye suddenly caught the faint coat of clear polish on Wally’s nails. He closed his mouth, clenching his jaw tightly, and then opened it again.

“I don’t see _you_ complaining, eating my food and living here for free, and having my servants wait on you like a spoiled bitch. You can call me whatever you like: _demi-monde_ , whore, prostitute,” he said the words with a terrifyingly calm voice Wally had never heard before.  “Just be sure to count _rich_ among my many titles. Look down on me all you like, West. I do well for myself, better than most who stubbornly cling to their pride. And, and, certainly better than _you_.” He punctuated that last word by pointing an accusing finger at his friend. It was silent a moment. Outside, a bird was twittering in a carefree sort of way.

“Um, how much do you make?” He was trying to keep his voice even despite his discomfort at Dick’s outburst.

Grayson quirked an eyebrow. The question had certainly been unexpected. Wordlessly, he held out a hand for the boy to inspect.

“That ring on my middle finger? Platinum.” He actually sounded proud in spite of himself. Wally relaxed hesitantly as he heard the edge leave his friend’s voice. “I have the finest of everything. Just look around you.”

“And the stability? You…you never worry?”

What the hell was wrong with him? Wally had suddenly gone pale, paler than usual. His pink lips parted slightly as he tried to speak again, to no avail. His cheeks were reddening now, and Dick wondered whether he wasn’t the only one who had been drinking. Maybe Wally had been so disgusted with his actions that he could barely speak. That was probably it.

“I mean, I only ask because,” he paused, crossing his arms. “That is to say, I, uh.” His green eyes were downcast now, and he took a small, shallow breath.

“Well, I thought you might teach me… to be like you.” Wally looked up at his friend, eyes shy and his face nearly as red as his hair. Dick’s jaw fell open, and Wally immediately straightened, words tumbling out as he came to his own defense, “I mean, thepayisreallygoodrightand-“

Grayson’s mind went blank and his jaw fell. Wally’s admission would have had him reaching for the Bourbon again, if he could remember where it was. Or how to move his arms. He barely registered Wally’s light-speed speech, even as it continued to fill his ears. There was no higher thought left inside him, nor elevated state of consciousness.

“Let me fuck you, then.”

He hadn’t even felt the words leave his mouth. They hadn’t even formed in his throat, and yet, his ears were hearing them. In his own voice, no less. It had been the alcohol. The alcohol! And he’d had no part in this. None at all.

Finally, Dick’s brain caught on, thoughts still fuzzy, and he realized his genius. It was a bluff, plain and simple. Oldest trick in the book. Wally would never accept, and the subject would get dropped right then and there. A bluff, yes. A bluff.

Grayson’s eyes narrowed gleefully as he sat back in his chair, legs splayed confidently. Wally had fallen silent at some point, though his face remained bright red. Slowly, the demi-monde spoke:

“My life’s nice, but it doesn’t come free,” he paused to smile, eyes half-lidded in a faux confidence. This part was easy, it was the same performance he’d put on hundreds of times before. “You can’t make a living this way if you aren’t prepared for what it entails,” he said, adding a layer of silk to his voice: the kind that let you know you were in for something.

Already Grayson could see that he’d won. The boy was red in the face, his head bent to the floor and his left arm grabbing his right, which hung limply by his side.

He’d never say yes. And then they could go back to normal. Almost-normal, anyways.

Suddenly, Wallace West’s right hand clenched into a fist. And as he raised his eyes in a defiant, green blaze, Dick knew he had made a terrible mistake.

“I’ll do it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! And I'm here with the Drama.
> 
> Alright, I'll give an update about the status of this story, since it has been a while (half a year!). Only good news, I swear! I've had everything outlined for a while now, it's just a matter of fleshing out the chapters. I fully intend on finishing this, though it may take time. 
> 
> As always, thanks for reading and your patience!


	7. Le Dogue Allemand

Even back in 1897, Dick Grayson had quite the reputation.

There was only one thing any man wanted to do after a long, cold spring day. And that was to lose himself either in the arms of his woman, or his drink.

Each time the sun fell below the horizon, and the cloudy skies briefly faded into the red-pink of a cardinal’s wing, Wally and Dick found themselves at The Great Dane. She was a modest pub with a smoking room in the back. Neither particularly clean nor high-class, with worn wooden flooring and patrons worn and work-weary to match. At the green-felted tables and the low, oiled lamps, a great deal of gambling was known to happen. By the time the pair arrived the place was always full to the brim; the men were packed in like bees in a hive: drunk on a bad sort of nectar. Nice and anonymous, Dick had always said.

Although Wally had moved to London when he was nine, he had become, in his own opinion, a true Englishman. But the Emerald Isle ran strong in his veins, and though he was a scant fifteen back in 1897, he drank often and without worry. Not enough to be labeled a drunkard, he’d seen enough of that in his burly cousins and in his father.

Before he’d passed, Rudolph West had always taken a grave voice when giving true advice to his boy. As the nights at the Dane grew long, inevitably his father’s words would come echoing back:

“Only a man with Irish blood ought to be mixing cards and whiskey.”

The advice often rang out clear in his mind, for Dick seldom took it. He’d sit in the corner, pint in hand and back to both walls, with Wally anxiously watching through the dark silver haze of the pub.   

For a man whose family had been taken from him so young, Dick sure seemed to have been born lucky. It was almost as though the hand of fate was not entirely wicked, trying to rectify its past transgressions by stacking the deck in the handsome youth’s favor. Granted, the gesture was about as effective as trying to irrigate an Arabian desert with a child’s watering can, but he appreciated it all the same.

It was true, Grayson felt his fortune keenly, and won more often than not. Though he had not a single drop of Irish blood in him, he could claim victory sober or drunk. He grew a certain confidence about him after a while, blustering and making a fool of himself on a hot streak. The regulars soon began to regard him with curiosity, then awe, finally settling upon a modest suspicion. Grayson claimed he never cheated, but all that meant to his cheroot-burning rivals was that he hadn’t been caught. Yet.

Though he could not see Grayson’s cards, each round Wally nevertheless endeavored to determine whether his friend’s hand was any good. The redhead was too vivacious to ever play himself: he could never seem to reign in his smile whenever his cards were favorable. So badly did he always wish to be more like Dick. Not just to play poker, though the money would have been nice. 

Over the summer months, the two of them made the Dane their favorite haunt. Wherever the conversations would lull, Dick would propose a game with a mischief in his blue eyes that Wally pretended only he could see. 

July, or maybe August, was when Wally could really read him. He could see the small catch in his breath before he looked at his cards, the tapping of his right foot when his hand was superior and his opponents took too long in their deliberation. The yawn when he was feigning boredom. The slightest lowering of his eyes when he was deciding whether to fold or not. Most obvious to Wally was that false confidence in his narrowed brow, easy smile, and half-lidded eyes that always came with a poor hand.

His tells became easy to spot over time. Like a tossed pebble into a smoke-blackened stream, Dick’s everyday mannerisms began to ripple into his games. And if Wally took such pride in guessing Dick’s cards from afar, no one could blame him, for Dick played a damn good hand of poker.

Fortune could not smile on Grayson every night, however. Dick knew when he was beaten. He’d pull his hands back, palms outward in defeat, and give a charming grin. It was on those nights the boys would go home with their pockets empty and an open tab at the Dane. Dick had always accepted his defeats handily and with grace, and Wally hardly ever worried over him.

Except the once.

The most despicable thing about that day, the 14th of September, was that it was wickedly beautiful. London’s dour clouds had miraculously parted for once, revealing a morning sky of robin’s-egg blue, and every soul in England had been better for it.

On that happy Tuesday morning, Grayson had stood at the edge of his friend’s yard, waiting. He’d sauntered up to Wally, put his right arm ‘round his shoulders, and began to walk, speaking in exaggerated tones all the while:    

“Wallace, my dearest and oldest friend, schooling is the most important thing, is it not?”

The redhead regarded the sarcasm with a raised brow and half a smile, already certain where this conversation was headed.

“Why, Richard, you know better than anyone just how much education means to me. I’m a man of science. A man of principal.”

“You are, you are. A man of utmost class.”

“Why, thank you.”

“You see,” Dick continued coolly, “I think a fellow like yourself, the pinnacle of scholarship, would be immensely benefited by a research excursion.”

“Oh, really?”

“Naturally. And, coincidentally, I know a private backer who very much needs your expertise on this beautiful day. He said something about the park. And alcohol. A study in chemistry, you understand.”

At this point, the turn for Wally’s secondary school was fast approaching. With no coaxing, Dick guided them in the opposite direction.

“Hrm,” Wally pondered, “you wouldn’t happen to know the name of this anonymous backer, would you?”

“Haven’t the foggiest.”

By the time the first tendrils of evening crept along, the pair had been drunk for hours, poking fun at the parkgoers and generally enjoying the final respite that summer had to offer them.

It was a night that had a warm, magic energy to it. The sort of night that ought to rightfully belong to July. Soon they’d head to the Dane, just as they always did. Sometime on the walk there (though in truth, walking was too generous a term for the uncoordinated stumbling of drunken youths), Dick had grown briefly solemn.

He had decided he was leaving for Paris to make his fortune, probably by playing cards. Gambling was not honest work, but it was something. For a man as lucky as Dick, it was the best way to live a comfortable, if not unprincipled life.

The rest of the walk to the Dane was completely unremarkable. Wally was blindsided by his friend’s sudden admission. And, most cruelly of all, he was leaving very soon. The redhead became lost in his thoughts, muddied by the alcohol, as they walked.

Over some of their last drinks together, Dick explained to Wally his plan. The summer months’ worth of betting had paid handsomely, and all-told he had about three months of good living in Paris from his earnings. But the Englishman had been drinking, and decided to unwisely tempt fate. Dick wanted more, and was willing to put it all on the line. 

One game, and he could double his money. It was a terrible idea, of course. Wally had opened his mouth to try and impart some of his father’s rare wisdom upon his old friend, but he saw the dark blue determination in his eyes and knew better.

Though the thought was selfish and dangerous, and he knew it so, Wally wondered whether Dick would still leave for Paris if he lost. Surely, he wouldn’t go with barely five quid to his name? But what did he know, he was just a drunken twerp of fifteen. Grayson was a man now, eighteen-and-a-half and nearly six feet tall. Clearly he must know things that Wally didn’t.

And so the bids were placed. The faux-summer night wore on, and by the stroke of midnight all the other men, save for one, had laid down their hands. Grayson had been bluffing the entire game and playing more aggressively than Wally could remember. Only he and a stranger were left now. The man wasn’t a regular, and Wally couldn’t read him too well. From his perch, he could not see the man’s hand, and he didn’t dare try lest anyone accuse him of helping Dick cheat.

It had only taken a moment, but a strange relief washed over Wally once he realized that Dick had been dealt absolute garbage. 

But then had come the moment. The worry. It was the one instant, where Grayson pushed all his chips into the middle of the table, that had wedged itself most vividly into Wally’s mind.  As Grayson did so, his eager lips curled upwards, unfurling white canines in a threatened, wolfish smile. To the souls at the table, it came off as a startling admission of confidence (the stranger, in possession of trip fives, had folded). To Wally, it was a last ditch effort. Grayson could fake his confidence to most, but not his closest friend. He’d almost lost it all, and after the game the two smoked outside in the midnight air.

Grayson, true to his namesake, was pale and grey in the faint moonlight. Wally rubbed his friend’s shoulders in a show of support. Wally tried to be happy for him, but tonight’s victory had only hastened and prolonged Dick’s leave. The two hugged wordlessly, both shaking from the adrenaline of it.

Dick couldn’t believe his luck. To think that months of good fortune and skill were almost squandered in a moment’s folly. He had won tonight, but at the cost of his livelihood (and, the small matter of his best friend). Though he was drunk on bourbon and victory, when he vowed to never gamble again, Wally knew he was good for it.

For a while, he worried about Grayson in Paris. Alone and unable to do what he does best, Wally figured that was how he became a  _demi-monde_ in the first place. There was always money to be made by those with looser morals and a more fearless disposition.

And so, it had been through observing Dick’s final poker game that Wallace West had agreed to sleep with his best friend.

 

* * *

 

“You can’t make a living this way if you aren’t prepared for what it entails.”

Wasn’t it embarrassing enough that he was considering this lifestyle for himself? He could feel his face turning redder. Some part of him longed to make Dick feel just as he did in this moment: vulnerable as all hell, like he were stark naked in the middle of a battlefield. But, despite all Grayson’s posturing and taunting, Wally saw an opportunity.

_“You can’t make a living this way if you aren’t prepared for what it entails.”_

He’d seen it as soon as Dick said the words. That same little threatened half-smile from his final poker game. Dick was bluffing.

And so Wally had said yes.

What he hadn’t considered, however, was just how shameless his friend had grown to be in the years since that night, nor just how drunk he had been. And though Wally’s keen eyes had almost no equal when it came to reading Dick Grayson, they had always missed one thing: it was the hesitant yet deep affection in his eyes whenever he looked at Wally. He'd said yes, and the die was suddenly cast. 

As usual, fate had rolled in Grayson’s favor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Faster update than usual. I had a lull between exams, so enjoy this one. 
> 
> If you couldn't tell, this story isn't beta-read. If anyone would like to beta for me, I (and all the other readers, I'm sure) would be very appreciative. Just let me know.
> 
> They'll get down to, ahem, business in the next chapter. I swear, I swear!
> 
> As always, thanks for reading!


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